


Earth Boys Are Easy

by spacebrock



Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [6]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebrock/pseuds/spacebrock
Summary: A little fic of a "What If" the Grounded (2017) comic by Chip Zdarsky and Kris Anka went...just a bit differently. As always, shout-out to my dearest friend for takin' this journey with me! Thank you, co-creator Cinequeen!Drawing from comics, TV, and MCU for this particular inspo! Have fun, and welcome to yet another trio fic. :>
Relationships: Eddie Brock/Matt Murdock, Eddie Brock/Matt Murdock/Peter Quill, Eddie Brock/Peter Quill, Matt Murdock/Peter Quill, they're at it again BOIS!!!
Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859026
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Doin' Time

[ _ Summertime, and the livin’s easy… _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b6UazdAlqhs)

Lana Del Rey’s mournful voice filtered through the miasma of the place where losers came to commiserate. Outside, the air sweltered wearily with the scents of roasting trash and sewage, intermingled with laundromat detergent and the Chinese takeout nearby. 

Inside, where the morose music played on by itself, the bar beneath his hands shone, but Eddie Brock kept on polishing. Like the drudgery was his life’s work, like he didn’t have a million things he’d rather be doing. He’d been there since open, working the double to cover for Greg - who had some family issue or another to deal with, as far as he knew. Wasn’t really his business.

_ Nobody  _ was his business anymore, which is what made the Bar With No Name the perfect place for him. 

The stories he got told now weren’t in cushy studios, cafes, or lounges - no. They were stories woefully recited over deflating heads of hops, by beings in elaborate costumes that’d seen better days. It felt a little bit like Hollywood when the Silver Screen era started to go under - when fading starlets flocked together to mourn the way their faces fell or the executives tossed down their hats and said “ _ to hell with it!” _

**_Left, Eddie._ ** He swung lazily out of the way as a pint crashed past him, brows lifting tiredly as he gave Rattler a Look. It was all it took for him to quiet down and skulk away, but it was enough. 

Nearly 2:00 AM - Eddie heaved a sigh as he watched the dregs of the night continue to filter through the space - a few at the pool tables, one slouched on the jukebox, another few clustered around tables, conspiring. At the back of his neck, he could feel the tingle of discomfort that came from SWORD’s monitoring chip - the society in question keeping close tabs on him - and his...significant other.

So to speak, anyway.

The voice that’d told him to swing to the left was, after all, a symbiotic entity called Venom, part of the reason he’d even wound up in the Bar to begin with. Their - no,  _ his  _ \- brand of justice called for working a little outside the box, after all, and doing so often meant that he wound up...committing tiny atrocities to get the job done.

_ “The creature that inhabits your body suppresses your fear and guilt reactions,” _ he’d been informed by the doctor that’d delivered the chip installment,  _ “and so, you may not feel like yourself for a while, but - you’ll balance out. This will help - sort of a minute shock to the system whenever the symbiote is active. _ ”

Eddie hadn’t had the heart nor the spirit to inform the sucker that he’d been a nasty person far longer than he’d had a klyntarian to make him worse. Plus, his lawyer had advised against it, after all - 

Blue eyes narrowed, and, feeling miserable heat rising to his face, Eddie finally abandoned polishing the bar to pick up cleaned glasses from the back of house instead.

_ Murdock. _

The composed, handsome, driven lawyer. With a good smile, when he chose to show it. Reassuring. Easy to believe in. Could’ve been a politician if he wanted to be, but he chose to use his...powers...for good instead. Eddie had believed in him from the get-go - followed his stories even before he made his way across the coast. His and the stories of  _ Daredevil,  _ and, quite honestly, if you suspended disbelief and ableism, of course the lines were more easily-drawn, but - 

Swinging both crates of pint glasses up, one over each shoulder, Eddie took a second to assess the dishwashing station. Absolute nightmare. His dishwasher had walked out after an incident with Princess Python, and now Greg was going to be short on station hands again. That and the other OTHER bartender had - well. Loony Toons had nothing on the piano drop that’d taken that poor bastard out. 

Some things never changed - including the fact that justice prevailed. Murdock had taken his case, when the past caught up with him across the country. Life pursued, and charges were pressed. Matt gave it his all - including a speech Eddie pretended  _ hadn’t  _ driven him to teariness - but there was too much evidence. And quite literal interference from the stars. As such, they [Eddie and his  _ partner _ ] thankfully weren’t to be sent back to California to a penitentiary that couldn’t keep up with  _ their _ strange; demanding, metabolic needs…

But that being said, community service following three months confinement within SWORD for assessment was proving to have its own set of difficulties. 

“ _ If you slip up, if you fall back on vigilantism, if you so much as nibble a finger, _ ” Abigail Brand’s voice had dropped to something lethal and low.  _ “I will make it my life’s purpose to send you to the Kiln.” _

_ “What’s the Kiln?”  _ Eddie, of course, had to ask. He swore he saw the ghost of a grim smile cross Abigail’s face beneath his glasses, but - 

_ “You don’t want to know.” _

_ “Bit cliche, isn’t it?” _

_ “Goodbye, Eddie. Go get a job.” _

  
And so, he had - nobody wanted to hire a reporter that’d also turned out to be an unreliable narrator, but - he’d managed to pass in an application for bar back just a little while ago, and now - 

“Practically runnin’ this shit-hole,” Eddie murmured to himself, gravelly voice full of exasperation as he turned and strode back into the main bar space. His phone buzzed - a quick check to the item on the counter confirmed his fear: Matt. Reaching back out to him again. Maybe he should’ve had a symbiote to suppress his guilt and fear. That or he felt compelled to do SWORD’s job for them. With a sigh, Eddie did what he’d done with the past six or seven texts - he elected to ignore them. Instead, piling both crates atop one shoulder, Eddie nudged Diamondhead’s arm out of the way to collect the funds he’d passed out on when the back door clattered open.

Immediately, he bristled with anticipation of something less friendly than a fellow staff-person - who the fuck would it be, given the recent reductions? - but shortly thereafter, he could hear Greg’s familiar baritone, accompanied by another voice. Lighter; scratchier. 

“--and this is the Bar With No Name--”

Eddie glanced up and around, turning in place.  _ Guest? Patron? Important person? _ He doubted it’d be new staff, but - 

“Try not to get killed.”

There, in a rumpled red-and-black flannel, standing beside Greg Allen, was an actual angel.

Whoa - timeout. Pump the brakes.

Eddie blinked - and blinked  _ again,  _ making every valiant effort to try and clear his head of nonsense; free himself from misconstrued ideals. But the vision stayed - a man with a perfectly-coifed head of golden hair, a well-trimmed beard; scruffy, but handsome. Ethereally so, and he couldn’t seem to stop veering off the road of normal reactions and into the ditch of sudden conclusions. 

In the light of the Bar, the stranger’s eyes were positively molten; nearly the color of his hair - with little shimmers of green that popped when he turned Eddie’s way, framed by the copper corrosion of the bar’s frame behind him. His smile was lopsided; a little bit confused, maybe - with pointy eyeteeth and a dimple that just--

“Hey,” Greg’s voice was the boom of a fuse blowing, and Eddie nearly dropped the crates on his shoulder to the floor. He’d forgot Greg was even in the picture, given circumstances. And, feeling the breeze in his mouth, he had the horrible realization that he’d simply...been staring. Standing there, staring. No wonder the blond man looked so fucking baffled. Bemused, too, actually.

“You gonna introduce yourself?” Greg prodded tiredly. Eddie slipped the crates off his shoulder at last and set them on the shelf behind himself, wiping off both hands before offering one to --

“Peter,” the stranger said, with a slow curl to his smirk that spoke of impish delight. Their hands met, and Eddie swore he saw stars, albeit it could’ve just as easily been another small shock from the chip at the back of his neck. “Quill. Star-Lord. Legendary Outlaw.” Greg heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Charmed,” Eddie said blankly. He knew who he was, suddenly - he should’ve recognized him sooner. But either it was something in the air, or something about  _ him,  _ but Eddie found himself simply thrown off-balance by Peter. Completely. Of all the things he’d come to expect in the city, this wasn’t one of them. Peter wasn’t - one of them. He’d come from the stars, after all, didn’t get much more unpredictable than that, right?

Shit - Peter was grinning again.

“Your name is ‘Charmed’?” The teasing glimmer only grew, threatening to burst outright into flame. It was echoed in the way Eddie felt his face light up, and, swallowing, he shook his head - and grasped the hand in his that much more firmly.

“Ah - no. Eddie. Eddie...Brock,” he muttered, dropping his gaze and releasing Peter after a moment or two. 

“Oh - the report--” Peter started to say, but Greg must’ve shushed him with a look. Shame burned Eddie’s face all the way to the tips of his ears and the nape of his neck, and, popping a soft “ye-p” under his breath, the [ex] reporter in question forced a smile to his face before it faded again.

“...Well - Pete’s gonna be fillin’ in for us,” Greg supplied, sidling back into conversation when he could sense impending disaster [a sixth sense he must’ve developed via the location they all currently occupied]. “Doin’ all the stuff you can’t do by yourself, and I can’t do by myself, and do  _ not  _ give me that face right now,” Greg warned. Eddie stopped the plaintive, annoyed look mid-shift, then settled for neutrality again. “I know you basically live here, man, but this’ll give you a chance to actually go home and get some  _ sleep. _ ”

“You too, right?” Eddie countered dryly, lifting a brow. Greg’s face went from defensive to silently amused, then stony again.

“Touche,” he conceded, stroking his goatee with a sigh. “But - anyway. You’re both temporary till your service is up. I figure - makes as much sense as anything else.” 

“Who says I’m temporary?” Eddie said at the same time Peter said “thank flark.” Another look was exchanged; Peter’s sheepish and Eddie’s perplexed.

“Wait - oh.” That’s right. It’d been in the papers just last Wednesday. Star-Lord’s mishaps and SWORD...had interfered with him, too. That explained a lot - it was coming back to Eddie now, surfacing slowly from the bog of depression and exhaustion, like bubbles releasing tension. He’d heard about the  _ Legendary Outlaw,  _ years ago - and now again, but - the constant buzzing from the inhibitor every time Venom happened to shift around in his DNA was an interference his brain wasn’t contending with well. It was just - all-around uncomfortable. And concentration was suboptimal to none. 

“Yeah,” Peter winced, and Eddie realized he’d stalled out. “Oh.” 

“Sorry - I get it,” Eddie muttered, “just - yeah. So - training?” They both glanced at Greg expectantly, who nodded.

“More or less. I know it’s the end of your shift, but I figured Peter might be able to lend a hand in closing.”

“Seems like you’ve got the picking up and putting down of heavy objects all figured out, though,” Peter joked - and in spite of himself, this time - for the first time in months - Eddie Brock felt the pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“I could always use a few pointers, Major Tom.”

“Major Tom?” There was a lilt of delight to Peter’s voice as he swayed closer to Eddie, tilting down a little in an effort to see him, studying the lines of his face. Eddie glanced up, and, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, he swore he felt the sun. “You listen to Bowie!”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Greg murmured, lifting his hands and stepping away with a wary glance back at the two of them. This had gone better than he thought it would, somehow - Brock was territorial and stoic at best, but...he’d shown more humanity, more animation, in the past fifteen minutes than in the entirety of the time Greg had known and employed him. Moreover - 

Neither of them even seemed to see him leave.  _ Fascinating _ .

“Of course,” Eddie said to Peter, and tried desperately not to stare; this time [even with eyes only for him]. “Who doesn’t?”

Peter’s crooked smile, this time, was soft.

“You’d be surprised.”


	2. Sweet Home Alabama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter length consistency? I don't know her  
> Eddie trains Peter on the job...more or less.  
> The handbook doesn't cover EVERYTHING, y'know.

“You know, leaning over like that is probably a handbook violation.”

It had been three solid days of this — work couldn’t really hold his focus, though he was doing his best. But he had to make up games along the way, or else he’d go - well, quite frankly,  _ insane  _ at how tedious it all was. This was so far from swashbuckling space adventures it made his head spin. But Eddie - Eddie, he could work with. In every sense of the word.

Peter occupied his time with a little physicality - bending a bit here, stretching a smidge there, trying to get attention off the rules and back where it belonged — on his assets. 

Eddie Brock was proving more formidable than he’d originally considered - maybe it was the fact that he was so focused on work [and, admittedly, Peter knew they were  _ supposed  _ to be working], or the fact that he had, occasionally, glimpsed a look cast his way that seemed to speak volumes - it did something odd to his stomach, that expression on Eddie’s face when they wound up  _ conveniently  _ too close together, reaching for the same thing to hoist back up on the shelves.

Eddie was - not necessarily closed-off, his past and present were open books [public record was like that, after all], but he was...hard to reach, Peter found. Heck, in his trio of training days, he’d bonded more readily with the colorful characters of the No-Name Bar than with his fellow staff members - albeit Greg was usually busy [and already not fond of him because...reasons], and Eddie - 

If he wasn’t working, he was thinking about work, or he was eating - a shocking amount of food throughout the night shifts, though Peter deigned to try not to ask about that kind of thing - xeno-politeness, after all, had its perks - the weird things just felt...normal, somehow…

The point that stuck out and prodded him the most, however, was the way Eddie’d started to ask what he was up to other than this. Peter’d jumped at the chance to complain about  _ community service,  _ but--

“They have me visiting  _ old folks, _ ” he groaned, lolling his head from side to side as he leaned on the bar. “Can you believe it? Old folks! I guess it’s better than picking up trash on the road, though...or brushing Abilisk teeth.” Peter cringed, rubbing his arms, before jostling Eddie with a bump of his shoulder. For a moment, he saw that look again - something... _ shy _ on the burly man’s face, under his stubble and all that unspoken gloom. Maybe a side dish of doom, too, if Peter Quill could wager the flavors of tragedy.

“What about you?” He asked brightly. “Trash or old folks?” Eddie’s face had shut entirely down at the question, however, and Peter was torn between the thought of  _ remind me to never take you to a poker game  _ and genuine concern.

“They don’t really encourage me to be around people,” Eddie muttered - and both the moment and the man slipped away from Peter that second shift they shared together. He’d kicked himself internally for prying, but - how was he to know? 

He knew a few things about his coworker [what a term] so far - Eddie had a myriad of tattoos, scars; he had a thick leather jacket with ridges on the shoulders that shone like oil, and a bike called Black Betty that, to Peter’s surprise, remained completely untouched by the majority of the riffraff that rolled in through the less-than-sacred halls of the Bar. 

“You’re gonna take me on a ride sometime, right?” Even  _ that  _ hadn’t won him any sort of reaction, other than a reddening of Eddie’s stuck-out ears and a mildly confused expression. 

“...sure…” had come later, delayed by - embarrassment? Disinterest? Peter couldn’t  _ tell,  _ and it was driving him up the wall almost as much as being stuck in one place was, period, the end. 

He chose instead to focus on the details - like the flicker he kept seeing in Eddie’s eyes.  _ Baby blues.  _ It did something  _ nice,  _ was the thing - maybe he was just more strung out than he’d previously considered. But whenever Eddie looked up at him like that, Peter felt the beginnings of a quiver in his knees, and, well. 

Peter Quill’s knees never lied, even if the rest of him did otherwise from time to time.

But Eddie was - handsome [another fact], and close by in proximity [ _ two  _ sureties] for a prolonged period of time per night, so - 

Nighttime was when stars shine their brightest, after all. So - Peter turned on the charm, and he polished up his edges. Trimmed his beard,  _ hair was always perfect,  _ didn’t need to worry about that quite so much - and he kept on trying. Subtlety, however, didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

Back to the present - though the past still happened to be his preferred venue. 

“Why don’t you show me?” he drawled, slinging himself upright from where he’d stretched out to do up his boots with a wrench on the laces. Back to the current moment. The predicament, really. Eddie was giving him one of his signature exasperated [and slightly exhausted, poor guy] looks, finishing up with the Vulture and his elaborate martini. Wiping his hands off on the towel at his hip, Eddie sighed, hands falling to rest there after the fact.

“How to bend over without injuring yourself? I thought a spaceman like you would have it down flat, Ziggy.”  _ Ziggy.  _ Peter grinned broadly from ear to ear, a crooked, mischievous thing that brought out the green of his eyes under the low lights of the bar. 

“I handle actual problems, not the mundane.”

“The mundane better not have ‘put the pint glasses in the washer’ written under it,” Eddie drawled, cocking a brow. He started to stoop to do up the trash, but Peter was in the way - again - and they came just about chest-to-chest with one another, Eddie forced to peer up in the space between them. Four inches at least, Peter was - taller than him, that is. 

Even with the slight stoop he seemed accustomed to making [which did prevent his head from whacking the upper racks and the lights for the most part], he was taller than Eddie - a fact that Peter didn’t mind all that much when it gave him such a nice view of those blue eyes.

Peter Quill would be lying to himself, this time, if he didn’t admit that he had a soft spot for eyes like that. 

In a flash, he swore the lights of the bar flickered and jittered, something of a shimmering, oscillating energy briefly making it all jolt. Film off its reel, a cassette tape about to be eaten. The walls felt closer than they did before, and - wasn’t the wall behind them a kind of dark beige before this? Grayish, even? Certainly not red...his breath steamed the air, and Peter rubbed his arms, the rattled sensation refusing to quit.  _ You’re not real. This isn’t real. This is just a nightmare. Any second now. _

A chill voice; multilayered and inhuman, filtered through the dead air; wisping and hissing around the edges like static fizz:

**_You can’t run forever._ **

“...From the knees,” Eddie was saying. Peter snapped back to reality, blinking once. Twice. He felt like he’d just missed a cue. An opportunity for - something. But his head was spinning. His stomach churned. Vomiting on Eddie was absolutely out of the question, so he focused on swallowing and forced out a question instead:

“What?”

“You bend from the knees,” Eddie explained, brow furrowing as he stared up at Peter - who knew he must’ve looked more ashen than before, with a tremble to his bottom lip and a faint pain in his scarred arm. There was - something sorely amiss, but...it could’ve just as easily been overlap from a villain’s powers, some interference of the unsettling kind. That was all. It couldn’t be anything else.

Peter wouldn’t let it be.

“Were you listening to anything--never mind,” Eddie sighed, “look - let’s take the trash out. Get some air.” Peter nodded dazedly and bent over - from the knees - to grab the garbage, hoisting it up as Eddie snagged a couple of other bags on their way out through the back.

“8-Ball - you’re in charge.” The patron swung his arms out in a shrug of disbelief, and Eddie huffed a laugh as the door swung shut behind himself and Peter.

Outside, the air was still sticky with the humidity of late Summer, smelling  _ ripe -  _ to the point where even Peter’s nose crinkled, shocked back to the moment more so than ever. The weird interruption that’d just occurred was nothing to worry about after all. Strangeness from the universe, no doubt, that had no place making a fuss, as far as he was concerned. Throwing the bags into the dumpster, Peter dusted off his hands, then turned to smile at Eddie. 

Back on that bull like this was a krutacking  _ rodeo. _

The innuendo buried in that thought made him bite his bottom lip, twisting from side to side to stretch again. Up rode the cotton shirt, over fine golden hair and sleek muscle. Eddie must’ve seen, he figured - 

But in turning around, Peter found Eddie’s eyes fixed elsewhere - somewhere up above the fire escapes, somewhere in the sky, perhaps. Frowning, Peter slouched anew, dropping his arms back down before padding over to where Eddie stood, trying to see what he was seeing.

“What? Oh--” there was a little window in the cloud and light pollution, just enough - a small hole, a window, through which the Dogstar peeked, shimmering blue-white and proud against the backdrop of night. Peter paused, bemused, then looked back around at Eddie - who stayed fixated on that point for longer than Peter though was possible. How was it other people were able to hold so flarkin’  _ still? _

“...Sorry,” Eddie murmured, glancing back around at Peter after a moment. There were fresh beads of sweat on his brow, and the man seemed - like he was in pain, quite possibly, or...distracted. Again, Peter felt that irritating kick of sulking annoyance that came from a wasted effort, but more importantly, he also felt a swell of quiet concern. “Stuck in my own head.” 

Beyond them, the bar began to blare  _ “Sweet Home Alabama”  _ \- much to the whooping, hollering approval of apparently more people than either Eddie or Peter thought might enjoy that particular number. Eddie smiled wryly, then looked back from the bar to Peter as he shrugged the bags of garbage into the dumpster, heaving a sigh.

“That where you’re from, Pete?” Peter stared at Eddie, then scoffed.

“What? No - I - you know where I’m from, man. Space.”

“The final frontier,” Eddie joked, the crinkle returning to the corners of his eyes. “No - I know, but...something about your voice sounds a little...familiar. Terra-familiar.” Peter nodded, then paused, squinting a little. In the indigo gloom of the alleyway, Eddie seemed to waver - maybe just his edges, maybe a trick of the light. The hair on the back of Peter’s neck stood up, slightly.

“How d’you know ‘Terra’?” 

“Ah - alien patrons,” Eddie shrugged his face; scrunching, and slumped against the side of the dumpster. “Just - you know. Figured that term might be more appropriate to someone like you.”

“From outer space,” Peter said pointedly. “Space...Space has like - its own places with accents, y’know. Space Missouri, Space Alabama--”

“So it’s Missouri, then,” Eddie grinned outright, with more devious energy than Peter had seen thus far. Stammering faintly, Peter clamped his mouth shut, then put his hands on his hips, crossed them, pointed -- he suddenly had zero idea what to do with them, as it turned out.

“N--no, no, I didn’t say that--”

“You didn’t have to,” Eddie chuckled, “your voice did that for you. S’a nice voice, Peter.” That stopped him cold, and it seemed to stop Eddie, too, as he surveyed Peter with a shy, flickering glance over his frame; appraising - then looked back up, his features softening a little. “...how long since you been back?”

“...a while,” Peter admitted slowly, surprising himself with the honesty - brow bowing in thought. Normally he'd dodge the question, but - it was that look in Eddie's eyes again. Like he; Peter Quill, had hung the heavens, and not the birthday banner for Boomerang above their heads. Something crossed between awe and disbelief stole across Eddie's face, wiping clean away the lines of discontent and age. He was - boyish again, in that moment. About to step out the window after Peter Pan, stolen away to Neverland.

“Just - not since the 80’s. It’s okay, I’m not - it’s not home anymore, so I ain’t homesick.” Eddie tilted his head, trying to see Peter’s face in the darkness - gears turning in his head, apparently, because after a moment, he stepped forward with a different look on his face.

"...I think..." his voice frayed a little as he stepped closer to Peter, peering up at him, "...I think - maybe I...wrote about you, once." Peter's eyebrows shot up and he laughed, short and sharp - his turn to scoff, to disbelieve. 

"Nah. Couldn't be me."

"No - I've seen your face before. I don't -- I don't forget faces," Eddie half-smiled, azure eyes shining. Peter's heart hammered something of a warning - the rap of a patrolman's knuckles at the door to his consciousness - before he opened his mouth to reply.

But their conversation didn't get much further than that.

Suddenly, the dumpster behind them whipped away down the alleyway, snagged by forces unknown. “ _ Eat glass, you piece of shit-- _ ” there was a groan of metal as the dumpster whirled, another voice chiming in: “ _ sweetheart, I didn’t mean it like that - listen, dollface, please-- _ ”

The dumpster dropped - at an alarming speed - flying toward the end of the alleyway. But Peter, who’d leaned out to see what was happening, was in the path of the flying metal box of death. And he didn’t even have his guns, though he was in the process of dropping to the ground and hoping for the best when - 

Eddie, in a movement so fast it was hardly noticeable, stepped into frame. 

Or at least, it was Eddie for exactly six seconds before something...someone - else...took over.

Vinyl darkness spilled across his shoulders, writhed up his legs, and consumed him all over - a great, shadowy veil encapsulated him from head to toe, oozing around his feet before climbing skyward - layers upon layers, until he was taller, thicker,  _ broader. _

In the time it took Peter to hit the ground and duck for cover, the transformation was over - and with a shrug of his body, the thing -  _ symbiote,  _ Peter realized, with a surge of refreshed amazement - dented the dumpster till it bowed in half like a boomerang. One massive hand snagged the lip of the item and wrenched it down off himself - themselves? - with a glower of milky white eyes. Sharp teeth flashed as a voice like a solar furnace burned through the air; crackling with irritation:

**_“We don’t need TO TAKE OUT anymore TRASH.”_ **

“Sorry Eddie!” 

“Shit, Python, that’s -  _ Venom _ \--just - sorry!” The squabblers fled under the hissing growl of a hungry klyntarian. The dumpster’s carcass, raining garbage everywhere but [thankfully] on top of Peter, found its way to the side of the building as Eddie let the alien he hosted slip back beneath his skin. Swaying a little on his feet, he closed his eyes for a second or two - as something lit up just by the nape of his neck; ugly, red-hot and glowing - before vanishing again. 

“...y’alright, Pete?” Eddie asked gruffly, and offered him a hand. Mesmerized, Peter reached out to accept, Eddie helping him back upright with a little grunt of effort. “Sorry ‘bout that. Shoulda known they’d get up to their usual lover’s quarrel. It’s a Thursday night, after all.” Peter giggled, flushed and wobbly, the danger and the fact that Eddie had  _ protected him,  _ **without hesitation,** sending fiery little pulses to the tips of his fingers, his toes - his - 

Well, every extremity was...happy with how things had gone, to put it mildly.

“You’re...you’ve got a--” before he could finish that sentence, however, a third voice cut in - or fifth, counting their previous interlude, of course.

“Inorganic anthropomorphic symbiotic alien.” This voice, low, unbothered [save for perhaps a note of something mildly-nettled]. “Also known as ‘symbiote’ or ‘klyntarian’, depending on who you ask.” 

There, where previously there’d been no one behind them, stood an unassuming man whose hair looked red under the light of the alleyway lamps, hands on his cane, a rumpled suit on a fine frame. Peter comically swung back and forth as if trying to discern where he’d come from, and, simultaneous with the unmoving object that was Eddie Brock, he said:

“Matt?”

Eddie and Peter glanced at one another, then back at the man in question. Matt lifted a few fingers in greeting, his expression dry.

“Hey guys. We need to talk.”


	3. This Charming Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please allow him to introduce himself, etc., IT'S MATTY TIME.

Matt Murdock had a lot of rules. Laws, some might say, that stemmed both from the judicial system and a very Catholic upbringing. Big “C”, that. Church was mandatory, especially after the passing of his father and his upbringing among stern nuns and quiet priests, and these were the things that shaped him. Fragments of a life were made into stained glass, and the wobbly limbs of childhood strengthened to iron; forged by fists that flew; the bellows of which were fanned by anger and fear.

Till the latter burned away entirely, he’d keep on fighting the good fight.

The thing about stained glass windows was their ability to transfer light and color in a way that struck awe; dazzlement, really. Look up at the window and suddenly you forget to be nervous. You can find faith in the multi-hued layers depicting justice and goodness prevailing; men overcoming sin, angels...even the Devil seemed to shine in places like that. 

Make something beautiful and just about anyone will believe in it.

Matt had his faith, of course - held tight in his fist as that fury aforementioned - where it counted. He put faith into the idea that he could do good with what he had, and where he came from. He could turn the ugliest stories into something worthy of defense if-needed, or condemn the wicked and put them in the hands of the judicial system. 

Then again, like all things man-made, that, too, was fallible and in need of rework - and while Matt knew himself to be the same [fallible; oftentimes in need of rework] he tried to lean into it as often as possible.

It was what he was trained for, anyway. In part.

The two men before him in the alleyway were Edward Charles Allan Brock; better known as Eddie or [REDACTED] of San Francisco, California, according to files - alongside Peter Jason Quill, both somewhere on Terra [Earth] - Missouri, judging by what Matt had been able to dredge up - and somewhere out in space. 

Weirdly enough, in his cross-examination of the two cases back to back, there were a few lines that crossed. Namely, it seemed, one of the most detailed examinations of Peter’s life had come from Brock himself, back in the day - a special “unsolved mystery” phenomenon aired on several channels. Kind of a last-ditch effort for the family, but - 

Again, faith was like that.

Coincidentally, both men had wound up as his clients as well. 

Brock’s had been an unfortunate series of mishaps - admittedly by his own doing; so the client had said. Matt had assured Eddie they’d figure out a solution to his situation that benefited both him and his...partner. But it was hard to see past the things he’d done. Even a blind man couldn’t ignore the obvious. Especially not one like the, uh. Devil himself, as it were. 

Eddie Brock had been accused of manslaughter - by means of being overridden by [REDACTED], the symbiotic being inhabiting his skin. Even now, in the ringing silence [save for the muffled sound of music playing nearby; clear as anything to Matt, and, of course, the other sounds of the city], he could hear it. Them. Shifting lazily around under Eddie’s skin. It was something that raised the hair on the back of his neck the first time he’d realized something was - different about Eddie. He’d heard the rumors, of course, but -

“Spit it out, Mr. Murdock,” the curt voice cut in, and Matt’s brows lifted above tinted spectacles [windows to the windows of the sou] at the address.

“I’ve told you before, Eddie,” Matt murmured, fingers tapping the top of his cane thoughtfully, “you can call me Matt.”

“Or ‘Matty’,” Peter put in helpfully, “he  _ really  _ likes it when you call him Matty.”

“No, he does not,” Matt said - but it was hard to fight the smile at Peter’s obvious jest. Because he was always joking, Matt found - that was why  _ his  _ trial hadn’t gone better, arguably. Sitting still and being serious were absolutely out of Peter Quill’s wheelhouse, as far as Matt could tell. Allegedly when he fought, it was different, but arguing with the judge or, indeed, anyone else, cracking wise, putting his feet up on the seat beside him [or worse, the table itself] - hadn’t exactly made the best impression. Peter swore he could read the writing on the wall [even if he squinted; the motion not lost on Matt, who felt every time he did it as if it was echoed in his own face], so… _ why bother? _

“ _ Because it matters,” _ Matt had informed him. “ _ You matter.” _ It just - felt right to say. Call it a hunch, call it a gut feeling. Call it believing in Star-Lord. It just slipped out, impatient and intense, more so than he’d previously intended.

With both men, in different ways, Matt Murdock had almost single-handedly tanked his career, but - 50/50 wasn’t bad, and Eddie’s conditions of release were directly tied to the betterment of mankind, in theory. Albeit he wasn’t pursuing his investigative journalism anymore, which Matt supposed must disappoint...some people. Albeit, there was significantly less cannibalism in the city now [at least as far as he knew, and he knew quite far], which was a good thing. Even if the people the man had...well - the  _ symbiote  _ had devoured were criminals, that wasn’t really up for him to decide.

And it was hard, somehow, to imagine, that Eddie was alright with it either - he brought men to justice in a way different than Matt, but they both needed to adhere to both the judge and the jury. No executioner. Not in the state of New York, and certainly not in the laws of Matthew Michael Murdock.

“For the record,” Matt said evenly to the burlier of the two men positioned to the left, “I’d been trying to reach you, Eddie, for the past week. Ten days, actually,” he murmured, cane tapping the ground. “And Peter - I’m not even sure you still  _ have  _ a phone--”

“Oh right,” Peter’s expression shifted.  _ Chagrin,  _ maybe, though nothing about his chemical makeup suggested any blooming of shame, “I dropped it on the train tracks...been meaning to replace it, but. Haha. Broke. But I’m gonna get a new one, I promise.” Matt resisted the urge to pinch his nose, instead pressing on with business.

“I was - I came here tonight to say I think I can get you each a retrial.” A beat, and then: “the court might be interested in--”

“No,” said Eddie, and Matt stopped short, surprised. During their time together, Eddie had been a man of specific words, choices, deliberate actions taken. He was sharp, he was lethal, and he was more stubborn than almost every other Irishman Matt had ever met.  _ Almost  _ every other. 

“No?” Peter followed up so Matt didn’t have to, gaping at Eddie. “What do you mean, no? Eddie - this is the best news. We can get outta here. It’s another shot at--”

“I said no,” Eddie repeated, his tone oddly flat. “I don’t want another circus. You go up against SWORD, you go up against a lot more than just New York law. Can’t erase what people already know. The bias is preexisting. Even someone like you can’t save someone like me, Matt. Please just...leave it.” Eddie exhaled, and, with a wrench, righted the dumpster back onto its wheels with the clutch of a larger, darker hand. Despite the buzz of discomfort that coursed down his spine [Matt could hear the crackle of electric nodes; minute, seething along the column of Eddie’s broad back], Eddie dumped the bags he and Peter had taken outside into the container, exhaling slowly. 

“It is what it is,” he added coolly, shrugging a little. Matt frowned, ducking his head toward the ground in thought.

“...Well - Peter, your thoughts?”

“I’m in,” said Peter;  _ immediate  _ and earnest. “I am so in. Please, Matty, get me --” he seemed to stop short as Eddie started walking toward the Bar’s back door again, then pressed on, “a second - third? - chance. I know if anyone can, it’s you.” 

Matt would be lying to himself if Peter’s words didn’t bring a sudden rush of heat up the back of his neck; coloring his cheeks a little beneath his glasses. Belief like that was hard to find - but - 

_ “I’ve read up on your work, followed your cases, _ ” Eddie had said to him, one cool evening in late April. It’d been gray, and the city smelled like rain, more than anything else, dulling all the senses in a way that finally felt...peaceful. The opposite to his element of fire, some might say - just after Easter, even the lilies had lost their overbearing scent. Now there was musk and leather, coffee and ink. Szechuan peppers from the meal they’d split over the casefiles. 

“ _ You always fight the good fight, Matt. _ ” He’d called him by name, then, as their elbows knocked on the desk, the sound echoed in the way Eddie wrenched open the Bar door to head inside. 

“ _ You don’t have to fight that for me. I know that I’m no good. _ ”

“Eddie,” Matt called; a little more sharply, a little quicker than before. The other man stalled, then turned, glancing over his shoulder. “If you change your mind--”

“I know how to get in contact with you, Mr. Murdock,” Eddie said coolly. “My phone works, I’ve just been busy.”

“‘My phone works’...way to rub it in,” Peter muttered, though he watched Eddie dip back into the Bar with a lingering glance, fingers stroking the soft, scratchy beginnings of a fresh beard, thoughtful. There was more going on there than he could clock just yet, but he could read signs a lot more clearly than most might’ve thought - provided they were a certain distance away, of course.

Matt was similar - after all, how could he have missed when Peter shuffled closer to him on the nights they’d worked on  _ his  _ case together? Willfully, perhaps, or unconsciously - it was difficult for either to determine. Matt was work-oriented with a purpose. Kept him steady, kept him balanced. Lean too far one way or another and he risked losing it again. 

Even stained glass was fallible. And like stained glass, occasionally, his composure broke.

And nothing made it break faster than - 

“Matty?” He inhaled sharply and tilted his head up, focused again. Peter peered down at him, sounding a little worried under the scratch of his voice, “you okay?”

“Never better, Mr. Quill,” Matt said with a smile. Peter sighed; dramatic and deep.

“Just -  _ Peter  _ is fine. Or Star-Lord. Legendary Outlaw.”

“Yeah, Peter, I’m not - I’m not doing that,” Matt chuckled, shaking his head. Peter smirked in spite of how weird the vibe had gotten [so quickly, too, and he had to wonder why - barring villainous spats and dumpster disputes, of course].

“Can you come by the office around 10 AM?” Peter hesitated, considering.

“Caaan we do around noon?” He asked slowly. “I have - a thing. Community service with - well, you know.” Matt grimaced.

“Right, of course. Noon it is. I can get us some lunch from Nelson’s.” Peter brightened, nodding exuberantly. “But I’ll let you get back to work till then.”

“I do plan to sleep at some point, unlike - some people,” Peter lolled his head back toward the door, just as theatrical as before, and Matt wrestled another smile into submission, purposefully stoic.

“Can’t imagine who you mean.” Peter grinned, bright enough for both of them, and inclined his head, one hand lifting to rub the back of his neck.

“It’s - good to see you again,” he said. Matt heard...something in his voice that he couldn’t identify outright, but it made his stomach flip and his palms tingle, so he clutched his cane for support and cleared his throat, resisting the urge to loosen the tie around his neck.

“I’d - say same, but…” Peter groaned as the spell broke - he swore he could feel it starting to settle, but - 

“Oh, c’mon - you know what I mean!” Matt snickered to himself, sidling back a step or two, and turned to begin walking away, lifting a hand in farewell.

“Indeed I do. See you tomorrow, Mr. Quill.”

“Peter!”

“Peter,” Matt said, almost to himself. Smiling, too - now that he’d turned away.

50/50 wasn’t bad. One out of two, he’d take it.

Call it blind faith, or whatever cliche, however - he still did believe he could achieve 100%. 

It was a rule and a belief of his, too, that Eddie Brock was also not as bad as he seemed.


	4. Don't Let Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Peter go over his case. And Peter's got a case of -- well. Matthew Murdock.

"I mean, I saved the galaxy like, a  _ flarkload _ of times," Peter whined, slithering balefully back over the arm of the sofa. 

Matt, ever-resilient and attentive, listened with his hands clasped [perhaps in a prayer for patience], tie crookedly cocked, a bottle of half-finished beer on his desk. The German stuff was rotgut awful [“a profoundly Catholic punishment,” Stick had told him once], but Peter'd had four and it didn't seem to bother him any. Other than to bring out the opinionated side of him.

_ As if he had another _ , Matt thought dryly.

"That should be enough," Peter went on, arms flinging up toward the ceiling; exasperated. "Y'know?"

“Sure,” Matt said, scrunching his nose, “but a jury on Earth is going to have a hard time seeing past…” his fingers brushed the bumps on the pages littered across his desk, and Matthew hummed thoughtful — as Peter watched him, fascinated. Riveted, for a man with no attention span to speak of. 

“Larceny, destruction of property, drunken belligerence, vigilantism by proxy—“

“By  _ proxy? _ ” Peter exclaimed.

“And several accounts of battery.” Expression thinning, especially around the lips, Matt folded his hands and shrugged with his thumbs. “It’s just facts. A bar fight and a drunken disorderly is one thing, but — this was not a fun rodeo.”

“Yeah,” Peter groused, sitting up to finish his beer, “there like. Weren’t even any bulls.” Matt had to laugh at that — a sensible chuckle, fingers loosening his collar just a little bit more. 

They’d been at this; work, for hours — poring over case details for the retrial, combing for snags and mismatched items, digging up facts and figures till Peter had enough and begged for food and drink. 

Matt provided pad Thai from his preferred place down the street; the beer aforementioned, and Peter brought gratitude in the form of squashing Matt in a hug that smelled a little too profusely of sweet and leather for his liking — or, more accurately, the sudden heat and pressure of another [semi] human being collapsing against him proved to be Too Much for his delicate sensibilities. 

It had taken him a full two minutes, thirteen seconds to recover. 

“That’s nothing, anyway,” Peter mumbled, pulling Matt back to the present with a sigh. The lawyer cleared his throat and straightened upright, head cocked to listen. “Ask me about the manipulation of the duchess.”

“I’d really rather not,” said Matt, simultaneous with Peter’s squeak of “aaaactually,  _ don’t. _ ” The two grinne, sharing the snicker, and Peter’s gaze lingered on Matt as the other ducked his head. 

“What’s your deal, anyway?”

“What do you mean, what’s my deal, Peter?” Something fluttered in Peter’s gut as he heard his name, the acknowledgment plucking a golden chord that sang through his system. Sitting upright a little, he rolled over onto his stomach to peer at Matt, chin propped on his arms atop the end of the sofa. Matt waited as Peter looked him over, seeming to size him up. 

“I just mean — do you try this hard for all your clients? And I don’t mean the hair products and catering.” Matt’s face went a little pink and Peter zoomed in on that intricacy with a keen eye despite how it swam with sleepiness and liquor’s weight.  _ Gotcha.  _

That wasn’t a closed door in the slightest. 

“Thanks, but —” Matt chuckled faintly, adjusting his glasses, “your trial and Eddie’s weren’t sitting right by me, so. I wanted to pursue them. To correct what went wrong.”

“To keep a track record?” Peter asked, point-blank — then, sorely wishing he hadn’t, belatedly clamped his mouth shut. Matt’s smile was practically slapped away, and Peter cursed himself quietly, drowning. “Sorry—I meant—”

“It’s fine,” Matt replied swiftly — much more timeless this time, and controlled. “Let’s just. Get the job done, shall we?”

“...okay,” Peter said, in the tone of someone incredibly skeptical. Disappointed by the disappearance of butterflies in his stomach, causing hurricanes in his heart [not to mention heatwaves elsewhere], he kept his eyes on Matt, head resting against his own bicep. “So you’re going to tell them I’m an innocent little lamb and I’ll skip away home?”

“Missouri?” Matt asked, and felt the air go out of the room somewhat. His stomach twisted at Peter’s now-uncharacteristic silence.  _ Stupid _ . 

“...ah — no, I don’t plan to stick around here that long,” Peter said slowly. “I’m thinking back up to space. Enough wallowing.”

“Wallowing?” Matt shifted to face Peter more at his table, brow furrowing. 

“...look — I just had some stuff happen up there, okay? It was — a lot.” He could still feel the creeping, crawling dread of his losses trying to tug him toward the dark where  _ nothing ever died.  _ They could’ve been together forever—

One hand snapped out to seize a beer bottle and Peter hefted the item to his lips, finishing off a fifth round with a little hiccuping sigh. Shuddering, he set the object back down and rubbed his jaw. 

“We could elaborate,” Matthew said carefully, “get some sympathy…” Peter’s jaw clenched and Matt caught the sound of grinding bone and popping tendon before maneuvering away. “Orrr we can stick to the facts and hope that the second look at your transgressions is somehow more forgiving. Your choice, Mr. Quill.” Damn that habit. 

“Peter,” said the other, right on-cue. His voice wavered between tears and exasperated amusement. “Just — Peter, Matty. It’s fine.”

_ Matty. _ It should’ve irked him more than it did, that childish nickname. And yet when Peter said it, warmth spilled through him like a tidal wave, like fine whiskey, and Matt wanted to crawl across the room, into Peter’s periphery, and hear it spoken against his ear till he heard nothing else. Not the boom of cranes and construction, nor shrieking siren, nor wailing of a baby two blocks away, deprived of something. 

Weren’t they all deprived of  _ something? _

Matt wished he could say this was a new and sudden development, but the truth was, this was how he’d felt the last time he’d been around Peter Quill. Brief as that dance had been, Peter was — flirtatious, ill-focused, insatiable, funny, sweet, probably handsome if Foggy’s stammering had any indication —

“Right,” Matt said again, his anchor word when he started to drift into a sea of nonsense. His smile flickered back to life on his face, and he fidgeted with the recording device. This had been kind of a bust — admittedly, Peter leaving to do community service work and calling out at the bar for this hadn’t settled the situation any. They’d made no progress in the morning, though, so the continuation felt...necessary. 

“I really appreciatecha helping me, Matty,” said Peter, a little softer than before. “If it doesn’t turn out, there really won’t be any hard feelings.” Something intoxicating and fresh spilled through the air between them, and Matt felt his grip weaken around the recorder. Thumb stroked the side, almost like—

“Well. Maybe one,” Peter giggled, and Matt was his reddest yet, redder than cherries, redder than blood. 

“Ah — Peter that’s...highly inappropriate.” Peter rolled his eyes and sat up a little bit more, stretching his arms over his head. Was it all Terrans or was it the two he’d tried to flirt with back to back? Flark, Peter hoped he wasn’t losing his mojo. 

As for Matt Murdock, well — 

It was just a sin he wasn’t sure he could afford to commit. Not with so much riding on this, but…

Speaking of riding on this—

“Matty, listen,” Peterimplored earnestly. Matt’s thumb fidgeted by the recording device’s off switch, knowing full well how on he’d be if he chose to flip it. Inhaling slowly, he attempted to steady himself — rising from his chair with a frown, beginning to stack his papers. “Listen — just—“ and Peter was  _ there,  _ pawing at his arms, the heat of his hands enough to reduce Matt’s legs to jelly. “It’s not a big deal. I’m a mature person, you’re a mature person, maybe we can work something out…”

“Attorney-client privilege?” Matt suggested sarcastically. He felt Peter nodding, zealously. “ _ No, _ Peter.” The nodding stopped and the pouting started. 

“Pleaaaase? We aren’t getting anything done. I think it’d be good to clear our heads. Think of things from a different perspective.” It might’ve been a little  _ too  _ desperate, but Peter — he needed this. He needed to know he wasn’t crazy. His nose brushed Matt’s temple as he leaned in to whisper, “ _ Matty,  _ I  _ need _ you” against his ear. 

Matt’s eyes rolled and fluttered. Somehow, Peter knew the magic words. 

His thumb brushed the button that turned off the recorder, and Matt straightened slightly to speak to Peter directly. 

“Now — let’s set some ground rules.”

“ _ Yes, _ ” Peter gasped, then squeaked — grunting as Matt spun him and shoved him back into the chair behind his desk. For a moment, Peter could only blink up at the man with his loosened tie, missed russet hair, and gray slacks as he stood; framed by the light and casting a shadow like horned flame behind him. Then, all at once, Matt was  _ everywhere — _ climbing into Peter’s lap, his hands sliding over the other man’s chest. 

“We can stop at any time,” Matt muttered, beginning to help Peter out of his shirt. 

“H’yeah,” Peter sighed, trying to kiss any part of Matt he could reach. 

“I’m in charge,” Matt said, threading his hand through Peter’s hair. 

“Absolutely,” laughed the blond man, breathless and desperate already. 

“And...this stays between us,” Matt muttered. “It does not affect our…” his lashes fluttered as he felt Peter harden beneath him, hot and stiff. His tongue caught more pheromones as it dove over his bottom lip. “Our  _ work… _ ”

“Agreed, yes, sold, whatever, I’m yours, please take me,” Peter burst out, giggling with ecstasy. This couldn’t be happening. Except that it  _ could,  _ when Matt somehow found places on his body that made Peter see more stars than there were in the galaxy. 

And — okay, so what if it was selfish? They’d done their heroics. 

They were allowed to have this feral little moment. 

Weren’t they?


	5. The Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some miscommunication, but Peter isn't really sure why.

“What’re you smiling about?” 

Peter only grinned that much harder as he scrubbed at the same glass, his nose scrunching and his eyes alight. The entire transformation into someone less fidgety [marginally] and mopey [by much] was mesmerizing. He was humming along to the music, swaying his hips [sticking out his tush], twirling on his heel as he served customers - raking in the modest tips as only the villains could provide [“and no, Peter, you  _ don’t  _ get to keep the  _ diamonds _ ” “aw man”]. 

Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Eddie cocked his head to the side and felt that same, strange levity in his chest that he’d been feeling more and more. With each passing shift, Peter - despite going through it himself - was proving more and more endearing. A good influence, for lack of a better term, on the stormy things Eddie Brock was dealing with at present. As such, he leaned into it - enough to offer some semblance of a smile back to Peter.

“There’s plenty to smile about, see?” Peter beamed knowingly down at Eddie, his hazel eyes bright and mischievous. Eddie felt the heat rise to the tips of his ears and, clearing his throat, shrugged broad shoulders before working on carefully breaking down the boxes behind the bar. “Say - why don’t you just--” Peter puffed out his cheeks, changing the subject entirely, “flex your big shiny alien musc--” Eddie’s hand shot over Peter’s face in an instant, the other hand instinctively crushing the cardboard in a fist of black veins and white knuckles.

“Don’t,” Eddie said, very,  _ very  _ calmly - before peeling a couple fingers back. Peter looked startled, then smiled beneath the calloused palm. Eddie was cooler than he’d expected [quite literally, temperature-wise], somehow - and he smelled  _ nice _ , despite the task of cardboard and booze. Like leather and mustk and something smoky. “And - don’t do that either,” Eddie added; voice a little shakier - Peter only then realizing just how much he’d begun to nuzzle the hand on his face. His dimples flashed; eyes aglow.

“Sorry. You just -- smell good.” If there was a shade of red that he hadn’t turned yet, Eddie got there in the end - his face full of fiery embarrassment and his jaw set in a line of determined bashfulness. Peter ducked his head after him as the other man hefted the boxes to bring to the back, tilting his head through the door after him. “Eddie! I’m sorry - come back, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” Eddie called, without turning around - and, sighing deeply, Peter ran a hand through his hair, letting the door swing shut between them as he pulled back to work the bar while the trash run was done. 

He could’ve sworn he’d seen the signs of Eddie’s interest, but - again, he was just...shut-off, closed-off, whatever. Something was keeping him at a distance. Even with the secret out [more or less] about the symbiote he carried with him [not something Peter would ever disparage anyone for, mind] - and his court files were all public record...it just seemed like Eddie Brock didn’t want Peter to get closer. Even if Peter still wanted him closer.

_ And why not? _ He could have cake and eat it too, he figured. 

Quite frankly, Peter had expected  _ Matt  _ to be the difficult one, when all was said and done. But it hadn’t been hard [actually it’d been  _ very hard _ , thank you very much] to get him to, uh. Comply to some...demands. “ _ Faster, baby _ ” and “ _ don’t stop, _ ” mostly, but endless praises to Matt’s torturous, ragged breathing and the fact that they had to move from the chair to the bed in record time was…

He was sweaty just thinking about it. 

Couldn’t be helped.

It’d been...a couple rounds, actually -  _ “just to be sure” _ \- Peter gnawing affections up the side of Matt’s neck as the other man rolled him over and pinned him to the bed, reddish hair hanging over Peter’s face like waves of silken burgundy. He felt drunk; a poet, a bard, reminiscing over every detail he could take in, though up close, for both of them, it went a little fuzzy. Peter figured it was just the soft lighting of the lawyer’s home, the backdrop of glass windows tinted a thousand different hues making the moment a masterpiece between them. Every freckle was caressed with tongue, lips, and teeth, as much as Peter could, a lithe and wild thing favoring; savoring, the spice Matt brought with him.

After the fact, in a sticky, hazy stupor, Matt had rolled over in a heap to catch himself, one hand pushing back his bangs, the other still holding Peter - lighter than before, fingers wrapped around his forearm, panting for breath in the midst of the scrambled sheets. Peter, dazedly staring at the ceiling and fighting to catch his breath as well, blinked owlishly after a moment with a soft whisper of “wow” simultaneous with Matt’s faint mumble of “fuck”. 

Heads canted toward one another, Peter watched a myriad of expressions play out across Matt’s face - exuberance, distant worry; maybe, exhaustion, guilt, dread, and --

“Hey,” Peter propped up on an elbow as Matt covered his face with a hand, pinching either temple. “What’re you--s’okay...I had...I had a good time.” His lips caught Matt’s shoulder, earnest. “Did - did you have a good time, Matty?” That name again. It drew a smile to Matt’s face when he felt nothing else would, and the hand fell away, motioning vaguely.

“I--it’s just. That’s not me, that wasn’t - like me, I swear--I...promise. I don’t normally blur the lines like that, I just…” Peter frowned a little, lowering himself on his arm before rolling over to pin Matt instead this time, their bodies still slick with sweat and spendings, his fingers threading firmly through Matt’s own; pinning them neat and tidy above his head.

“Matt,” Peter said, much more sternly this time, “it’s  _ fine,  _ okay? I’m fine, you’re fine…” Peter leaned in, leisurely, gradually, less flexible than Matt [ _ how the hell had he gotten his leg up that high? Questions for later pillow talk. Damage control now _ ] but still managing to straddle him, kissing up the side of his neck where the bruises had already begun to blossom, violet and scarlet alike. Matt snorted, and Peter paused, grin curling at either corner of his mouth.

“I just - um…” A red tongue slipped over pink and swollen lips; colors of a valentine, and Matt laughed weakly. “You’re a  _ client,  _ Peter, I’m not supposed t-to--” his voice stuttered out as Peter’s pointy eyeteeth caught the lobe of his ear, and he burst into faint giggles, toes curling under the sheets.  _ A-ha. _ “To  _ do  _ this, so…and I’m n-not - I mean, I didn’t...think I was…”

_ Whatever it was, it could wait _ , Peter figured lazily. His fingers released Matt’s hands and with a pleased sigh, Peter felt Matt bury them right back in his golden tresses, petting him - kneading him.  _ Needing me, _ Peter thought to himself, and the concept brought a giddy little grin back to his face; joy rushing through his veins. His digits traipsed down the length of Matt’s body; across arms, featherlight -- then a little more firmly around the chest, the ribs, the  _ sides -- _

And like finding a magic button, Peter was pleased to see, to feel, to  _ hear  _ the way Matt abruptly burst into laughter; his giggles bright and airier than expected, somehow. Not even a chuckling buildup - just sudden, breathless mirth as if Peter had just released a valve, and suddenly Matt was just - squirming underneath him, kicking his legs, but not with much effort - bound and helpless, really helpless, all for the sake of glee.

“P--Peter  _ s-stop _ \--” the tittering didn’t cease, tears sliding down Matt’s cheeks as Peter worked his hands around Matt’s sides, happily humming.

“You’re really so concerned with, like, everything all the time,” Peter murmured, mock-worried. “You gotta learn to let go, Matty - it’s not healthy to keep these things bottled up.” His fingers found the dimple of Matt’s thigh and the lawyer all but  _ howled  _ with laughter, one hand releasing Peter’s hair to grip his own, face a shade of strawberry and teeth flashing white.

For a moment, as he sat there fondly observing the man beneath him, Peter considered, for the first time in his life; maybe - 

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to hold still for a while. Rather than run.

“You good?” He asked gently, his hands finally ceasing their torment to instead brush back a few of Matt’s locks. Still beaming till the crinkles around his eyes showed, Matt nodded after a moment, still trying in vain to catch his breath.

“S-so good. I’m - whew. I’m good.”

No doubt he should’ve felt embarrassed by it, but - it was...oddly invigorating.

“You know you’re overpouring that, right?” Matt asked. Peter blinked; bemused.

“Pete?” 8-Ball, not Matt, and he wasn’t back in Matt’s flat, he was - 

“Oh flark.” He lifted the nozzle away from the glass and fumbled for a towel or two to stop up the ocean of soda water now sloshing across the surface of the bar. “Dude I am  _ so sorry,  _ that was - not what I was - I -”

“All good,” grunted 8-Ball, and leaned away from Peter with an odd look before lumbering off into the rest of the Bar. Groaning, Peter swiped the towels off to the rag crate and resisted the urge to rub his face. Washing first; in the back. 

Kicking open the door with a foot, Peter stumbled off into the confines of the narrow galley, flicking the sink on to get the stickiness off.  _ Too fitting,  _ he thought, dryly- shaking his head. The back door nudged open and Eddie trudged in - soaking wet, out of what appeared to be a sudden Summer downpour.

“Oh--” for a moment, Peter could only stare, water running over his hands, as Eddie tiredly slithered out of his drenched flannel, a sniff of annoyance following before he swiped some of the excess liquid from his face. Blue eyes lifted from the floor, and Eddie paused, fingers curled under the hem of his shirt, suddenly red again.  _ Oh,  _ Peter shut off the water and quickly looked away, then back again.  _ Right… _

“I--sorry,” Eddie said, bewilderingly enough. Peter’s brows shot together in bemusement. “Just - gonna change real quick, I keep spare clothes back’ere. I’ll be up front inna minute.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and didn’t move - still casually leaning by the sink, fingers drumming on the steel sides. Eddie furrowed his brow, then, clearing his throat, stepped toward the other side of the small space where a duffel of clothes sat - and Peter had half a mind to ask  _ why  _ Eddie kept spare clothes here, but - 

“Do you mind?” Eddie asked, suddenly. 

“No,” Peter said mildly. The two of them locked eyes as Eddie, exasperated, slumped his shoulders. “OH,” Peter said, “finally” clocking it - and put a hand over his eyes with a grin. “Don’t worry. You’re good.” He didn’t say he wouldn’t look, but apparently Eddie took the gesture at face value - and Peter took in the view from between his fingers with a curious eye, studying the lines of Eddie’s frame as he slithered out of his black v-neck.

Broadest shoulders he’d ever seen [since Drax anyway, but - Peter didn’t want to think about that right now, thanks], good muscles, pale skin, covered in - little scars, it looked like. Not to mention the ink of tattoos now on full display, a dazzling array of anything from a spiderweb at the elbow to - was that a  _ cleaver  _ on his forearm? The back was surprisingly bare, chest had a few things and - 

Peeling off the denim, Eddie sighed to himself. His cheeks were burning, and Peter could tell he…probably knew Peter was watching, but - he didn’t stop. Everything but the boxers came off [ _ a shame, _ Peter thought], exchanged instead for a pair of dark pants [suit pants, from the looks of things] and a soft heather-gray henley. 

“Y’can look now,” Eddie muttered, and Peter melodramatically took his hand away, gasping - a hand now on either side of his face.

“A magical transformation. You’re a new man!” He was relieved to see that at least cracked a smile on Eddie’s typically-stoic features - one that made his stuck-out ears shift; his head duck and...Peter felt that familiar stir of warmth in his stomach from it. Distractingly enough. 

“You’re a dork, Peter Quill,” Eddie murmured, and folded up his damp clothes to leave by the duffel. Peter snorted.

“I’ve never been accused of that before.” One hand propped the door to the bar back open and Peter motioned with his head. “Ready to get back in there?”

“Just a sec,” Eddie said quietly - then shut his eyes, seemingly - doing nothing for a second or two. Darkness swirled across his neck, however, and the other man winced, lifting a hand to gingerly touch the nape. Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly.  _ Was he in pain? Was it the symbiote? _ “Okay. We’re good.”

_ Are we? _ Peter wanted to ask, but Eddie was in his space, opening the door a little bit more. Their bodies brushed, and once again, Peter marveled at the chill Eddie brought with him, the feeling of an ocean wave lapping at overheated sand. Wait - why was he overheated? Peter felt - flushed, a little, half-standing in the threshold. Eddie peered up at him after a moment, quietly amused.

“You uh. You gonna let me into the bar, Peter?” There was...something in his voice, he wasn’t imagining it. Peter swallowed slightly and, mouth dry, went:

“Oh - yeah! Y-yeah, sorry, Eddie…” and stepped out of the way, allowing him to pass. The other man flicked an appraising look over him as if checking for injury, and, after a moment, ducked back into the space they shared behind the bar. Peter let the door swing shut and plunge him into indigo shadow, then orange light, indigo, orange, indigo - the door’s trajectory a needle that vibrated between Points A and B in his brain. A compass spinning. 

Peter exhaled.

This was fine. Just - having fun. Harmless fun. Getting laid; flirting, playing with fire, edging closer to the water. He could straddle that line.

Plenty to smile about. And pretty soon, he’d be a man free and clear - of a record on Terra, anyway [in theory]. 

So really, what was the harm? Time for double or nothing. 

Peter really hoped it wouldn’t be  _ nothing. _

He slid back out into the bar with a cheerful whistle, sashaying into frame alongside Eddie with a gentle hip-check. “Y’know,” he offered lightly, “I couldn’t help but notice you seem wound pretty tight. Maybe we should do something fun. Catch a movie. Go to Coney Island. That’s still a thing, right?” Eddie smirked to himself as he counted coasters, the laughter lines appearing in the wake of Peter’s comment.  _ Success. _

“Maybe,” Eddie murmured, cocking his head, “‘zat what you like to do for fun?” 

“That and fly, but uh - grounded, presently...dancing...always wanted to try roller-skating...I enjoy long strolls in the sky, sex,” he slipped that in, casual as could be, and watched something click behind Eddie’s eyes. “Not to mention treasure-hunting, though that’s…” he laughed, slouching against the bar with a theatrical toss of his head. “Kind of standard in my job description as--hey, where are you going?” Eddie had untucked the towel from his belt and tossed it aside, moving away toward the end of the bar again with a bag in hand.

“Gonna make a bank run.” Peter flung out his hands in exasperation, rising back upright. Eddie hadn’t even looked him in the eye, and--

“I always do the bank run,” Peter protested - but the other man had vanished into the throngs and out the front door, leaving him stranded behind the bar. 

“Was it somethin’ I said…?” Peter asked, voice slightly crushed. Rhino patted his arm reassuringly, and nearly knocked him to the floor.


	6. Rock You Like A Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just...blowin' off steam, you know how it is...

Eddie wasn’t even sure why he was upset. Things didn’t have to be complicated. They could be easy.

_ He  _ could be easy.

Normally, he could just about clear up his emotions with a few journal entries and call it a day. Might sound rudimentary, but it was true. That or, prior to the implant, Venom was capable of shutting down doubts, fears, questions, and concerns accordingly. But lately, any time they tried to communicate was fraught with a frazzled connection. Say what you wanted about SWORD, they knew how to manage their tech shockingly well.

But something about the way Peter’d...smelled; crazy as that sounded, had subsequently driven  _ Eddie  _ crazy. He couldn’t put a finger on it - till his brain put two and two together, of course. Clues used to be his specialty. There were days when he sorely missed his investigative journalism. At least there, his skills could be applied in accordance with solving crimes, mysteries, or problems.

Here, enhanced senses and a detail-oriented mindset were driving him crazy. Peter had a nice scent on his own, the kind of leathery scent that came from days of travel in the same coat, warm but not overpowering. A kind of...homeyness to him, Eddie figured - as if someone like Eddie Brock knew what “home” was.

His throat tightened as he realized just how long he’d been scrubbing the same pitcher. The dishwasher would’ve handled it without his pre-wash but he couldn’t...help it. He was a fidgeter. Had to keep his hands busy, and he’d lost all his bracelets just before the trial.  _ Maybe that’s why it bombed. _

Doubtful. Just an ex-player’s superstition. This wasn’t a ballfield. Far from. At least out there, the rules were clearly-defined, and he wouldn’t be obsessively wondering what it was that was  _ extra  _ on the skin of his colleague. His clothes; his hair. 

And that’s all Peter was, after all - a  _ colleague. _ His face burned with irritation as Eddie shoved the pitcher into the racks of the dishwasher at last -

Promptly shattering two pint-glasses on impact.

“...fuck,” came the tired sigh, Eddie scrubbing a hand over his scruffy face in an effort to dislodge some of the annoyance. The tension. God, he was so  _ fucking  _ tense and any outlet he did have was monitored  _ profusely.  _ He’d even seen SWORD agents at the boxing ring he’d taken up trying to frequent - not that he could afford a membership or anything, just - 

Whenever he got the itch to hit something, in he went, and out he came a better man. What was so wrong about  _ that? _

Leaning forward into the dishwasher, he hauled out the racks of broken glass and sighed faintly. “The hell am I gonna do?” Peter smelled like Matt Murdock. That kind of expensive liquor the other man drank, a little bit of good coffee, and--

“Eddie? Everything okay back here?” His head rose too fast as he tried to straighten out from under the raised dishwasher shield and -  _ whack. _ The steel lip caught the back of his skull and he saw stars; swirling Peters in his periphery briefly. Two hands lifted, and the lankier man smiled reassuringly. “Just me - it’s okay, you can...relax…”

Only then did Eddie realize the  _ other  _ reason his face hurt was - the sudden unsheathing of razor-sharp teeth, Venom on near-full display in mouth alone. Right on-cue, the implant buzzed, and something went wobbly in his legs. And there Peter was, a hand under his arm, his scent  _ everywhere,  _ and Eddie’s eyes nearly rolled back from the overwhelming aspect of...well, all of it.

“Sorry - just clumsy,” he muttered. Peter’s eyes traveled from his face to the racks, brow furrowing. “I’ll take care’uv it, Peter - just...get back out there.”

“Nobody’s there right now,” Peter breezed, squeezing Eddie’s arm before the other man pulled away entirely. “Just left - and we’re twenty to close anyway, s’okay.”

Three days had come and gone, a night where Peter was off, a night where Eddie was off [forced by the owner of the bar, more or less, to be “anywhere but here, for fuck’s sake, Brock”], and now - back together again, it felt...different, somehow. Though it shouldn’t.

“If nobody shows up in the next fifteen, have a drink with me?” Peter wheedled, seemingly on a whim [ _ like he did everything else,  _ Eddie thought ruefully]. 

“Ah - I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Eddie muttered, brows lifting. He was used to Venom taking the edge off emotions - and alcohol, and allergy attacks, and whatever else his body chose to throw at him as a problem. Not to mention his other issue -

_ “Mr. Brock, you...you might want to see a doctor.” _ Matt had said that to him - third time they met, with a hesitance in his voice that Eddie recognized as a kind of...concern. But one that felt ironclad. And - of course, now he was starting to understand why. Why Matt had been so sure, and how he’d known - 

Just how sick Eddie Brock  _ truly  _ was.

And with Venom suppressed, it was all the symbiote could do just to keep the lights on. So to speak.

“Pleaaase?” Peter begged, tilting his head as Eddie dumped the glass shards into the garbage, shaking the rack out furiously. The sound of his voice as least pulled Eddie back to the present. “It’s just one drink, what’s the harm? I’ll even pay for it.” Eddie glanced up; blue eyes skeptical, and met Peter’s gaze with some level of reluctance.

“One drink,” Eddie informed him, finger lifting. Peter grinned, tapping a fingertip to Eddie’s own with a nod of acquiescence.

“One drink,” he confirmed, and flew off out to the front with a happy little hum. Eddie stood for a moment in time suspended, his finger uplifted and his eyes in the middle-distance. 

The place Peter had touched him tingled a little. Not quite an electric shock, or anything, just - 

The finger curled into a fist, and suddenly, Eddie wanted nothing more than to walk out the back door and head to the gym. To beat into submission whatever frustration he could feel already starting to swirl around inside of his chest over all of this. He shouldn’t care. Why did he care about a coworker and the lawyer who couldn’t help him? He was supposed to just - keep his head down and work, and he couldn’t even seem to manage  _ that. _

Burning with self-hatred and insufferable amounts of torment [or something equally dramatic], Eddie shook his head, muttered “get it together” with a swat to either side of his face, and turned to head back out to the bar.

The weather had kept up its torrential madness off and on for a few days now - the late Summer in the city progressing towards Fall always brushing shoulders with tropical systems. There was a hurricane reeling up the coastline [“which I have nothing to do with,” Cyclone informed them the night he dropped in to enjoy (what else) but a Hurricane or two]. Indoors, however, all was quiet, save for the rock music [on speakers Peter had spent a good half hour to forty-five minutes fixing himself because “I cannot stand to listen to badly-filtered music for one second longer. Do you guys not use dampeners or--” the rest had been absolutely indecipherable to Eddie, but it sounded smart - so he’d just...smiled and let Peter do his own thing]. Eddie locked up for the night right on the dot, and Peter was already pouring them each a stout, the rich scent of hops filling the air. Beside them, a shot-glass of whiskey - which Eddie raised an eyebrow at.

“Hey, you said one drink,” Peter grinned knowingly over the bar at him as Eddie set about unamusedly stacking chairs, side-eyeing the mischievous visitor from outer space. “I’m making one drink. You do the shot, you chase with beer.”

“Thanks, I know how it works,” Eddie said - but without any real bite to it - just a slight tug to the corner of his mouth Peter took as a win. 

A quick sweep of the floor and Eddie found himself dragged by the arm over to the bar itself, settling in for the drink that Peter, apparently, wanted to do in tandem with Eddie - giggling as he tossed back the shot and downed the beer in record time. Eddie, more prone to nursing the drinks he got when it came to things like stout, just sighed - and followed suit before turning to snag his coat from the barstool. 

“Oh, nonono,” Peter snickered, batting his hand away. “Just - stay for a second. Till the rain clears up. I’ll make us another.”

“One drink,” Eddie reminded him flatly, brow lifting. “And it’s due to rain all night.” Peter pouted a little, then moseyed back over the bar in a slide that shouldn’t have been so fluid; so  _ possible,  _ but - one moment he was seated beside Eddie, the next, beside the drinks again, fetching more stout.

“Two drinks,” Peter said, “we’ll take our time this time.” Eddie felt a little flush creep down his neck; aggravation, no doubt, and sighed. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“Been called worse,” Peter chuckled, and slid the new glass Eddie’s way. With a shrug of his face and raise of his glass, Eddie toasted:

“To...colleagues, and to your successful retrial. Next Friday, is it?”

“Next Friday,” Peter confirmed, a little surprise in his eyes. “How’d you know?” Eddie’s gaze shifted down to his drink as he raised it to his lips.

“I keep up with current affairs,” Eddie murmured. “Murdock...he’s good. Sent me a query for character witness.” Peter’s smile ticked left, nose scrunching.  _ Character witness.  _ It was almost...funny, now, considering just how much of his “character” Matt had personally gotten to know mere days ago…but yeah. Matt was  _ good,  _ Eddie wasn’t wrong there, and - 

“And - what did you say?” Peter asked coyly, unable to help himself. Eddie’s face tinted a little; or maybe it was the lighting - but he flushed, faintly, shrugging.

“That you’re -  _ smart _ ,” the emphasis warmed Peter’s cheeks; creeping down his chest with a soft swell of delighted pride, “and capable, more observant than people give you credit for, kind, and give everyone a chance. So why shouldn’t everyone give  _ you  _ one, too?” Eddie’s mouth snapped shut as if he regretted speaking, but - for a moment, he looked at Peter, and the other man felt as though he was...the only other person in existence.

It was nice, those three seconds of solitude and singularity. 

Then Eddie glanced away again, and the spell lifted.

Peter’s eyes shifted across him as if searching for clues, and, not for the first time, landed on the intricate chain around his neck, on which hung a bright golden ring. Till Eddie tucked it away under his henley, of course - the dark fabric shrouded the questionable item from view, and Peter puzzled over it no more. He had drinking to do, swaying a little on the floor in time to the music.

_ The Scorpions. _ Eddie had a few of their shirts tucked away back home, but - he hadn’t felt much like wearing anything band-related for a while now. Hadn’t felt like doing much or being much, period, the end. But Peter - 

Peter, there in his David Bowie shirt, his faded blue-orange flannel, and his little smile like he knew so much and said way more than he needed to. Peter, who was sashaying back to the bar stool with the easy gait of someone who could switch from an Imperial March to a Moonwalk within seconds. Just - a natural dancer.

Eddie glanced skeptically at his drink, then back up to Peter as the other settled beside him. Had it really been this long since he’d drank that it was affecting him  _ this much,  _ that fast? He swallowed a little and cleared his throat.

“So what’s been on your mind?” Peter asked, gently. Eddie threw him a bemused look, taking another swig of his drink.

“...I mean - just work. When’re we gonna convince the boss to get new --” he groped around for something. “Carpets…”

“Do you  _ really  _ want carpets in a  _ bar? _ ” Peter asked wryly. Eddie grimaced.

“Point taken. Guess I’ve just been preoccupied. Sorry if that’s been affectin’ my work.” Peter pulled himself more towards Eddie, turning to face him, with a baffled blink.

“Wh--no, I’m not - I’m not  _ scolding  _ you, flark, I’m - worried. You’ve been awful quiet. Even for you, and...so tense.” Peter’s gaze searched Eddie’s face and the other man felt heat crawl up to the tips of his ears. Slowly, the pint glass lowered from his lips, and Eddie set the entire thing aside. The music was still playing on, but all he could hear, suddenly, was the pounding in his ears. Venom stirred; awakened tiredly by the acceleration of pulse.  _ Heartbeat racing.  _ **_Why, Eddie?_ ** _ Don’t know, V. _

It was the most they’d spoken in days. He; Venom. Peter and Eddie, too.

“I’m - sorry,” Eddie said, unable to think of what else to say. The Bar With No Name suddenly felt  _ incredibly  _ small, as did he - and he wasn’t, necessarily, a small man, but...Peter in his space; so close, taller even sitting down - well, that’s how it worked,  _ duh, Eddie,  _ it’s not like - he’d have to be  _ lying down,  _ and--

Clearly the drinks had rushed to his head - when had he last eaten? Fuck if he could remember. This was all a very big bad idea. Peter’s eyes shimmered at him from the short distance they now had between them -  _ what else was between them? Only air. What did you do with air? _

Eddie breathed.

“ _ Stardust _ ,” he said, before he could help it. Peter blinked, crooked smile slowly unfolding across his face. “You - the shirt. I like Bowie.” Too much information by far. Eddie’s throat felt tight, words scraping free: “so - so Ziggy...Stardust. The Man Who Fell to Earth...and...all that…” Babbling. Why was he so goddamn nervous?

“I like that,” Peter dug a pointy canine into his bottom lip, considering. “And I like  _ you,  _ Eddie.” Heat blazed and Eddie realized he’d been looking at Peter’s lips when he spoke - not his eyes, which crinkled with warmth that made him  _ feel  _ \- more than he had in  _ months.  _ Years, maybe, not since - 

“ _ Don’t you like me too _ …?” 

Eddie wasn’t sure how it happened.

One minute, Peter was whispering those words, the next, they were locked in a soft kiss - just a tender embrace, Peter’s nose nudging his cheek, the taste of hops and sweets on a tongue that flickered, questioningly, at Eddie’s entrance and - the  _ noise  _ Eddie made didn’t even sound  _ human. _ Peter’s fingers curled in the air as he reached for him - 

But like smoke, Eddie fell back, dissipating, his eyes wide. For a moment, they only looked at each other - Eddie with panic, Peter with half-lidded longing. 

It’d been a while since a drink and...a kiss, actually. Way longer than a while.

“I’m...sorry,” he was a broken record. He knew that. Eddie couldn’t help it, thoug.h “I’m - sorry, I’m not - I’m not like that, I swear…” the stammering faded off into oblivion because - already, they were leaning in again, or he was, and he was brushing through Peter’s scruff, cradling his cheek, tilting forward until their mouths met again; slotting together in a slow, perfect spread of heat and pleasant chemicals. He could  _ taste  _ the pheromones, he could - catch the  _ flavor  _ of serotonin; dopamine, like - marshmallows and bitter dark chocolate melting together with alcohol. His hand slid into Peter’s hair; unthinking, digits kneading behind his ears as Peter pawed at his sides, scrambling for purchase - 

Before Eddie popped free again and let go, sliding off the stool with a mortified cough. His hand snatched his coat and Eddie, wordless now, more than he’d ever been in his life, headed for the back of the bar. Peter, dazedly left hanging in the air, shot off his stool after a moment to rush after him, the gesture a little...harder than usual.

“Eddie - wait! It’s okay, you don’t have to--”

“I’m not like that,” Eddie ground out, cashing out the register with a frantic; shaking hand. Peter froze where he was, watchful, then frowned.  _ Matt had said similar _ , he realized. “So just - forget it. I’m sorry I kissed ya. It’s just been a while, okay? It’s - I’m not...I’m sorry...”

“Well - I’m not,” Peter said, bemused. What  _ was it  _ with Earth boys and their hang-ups around this sort of thing? He could remember bits and pieces of it from childhood - “ _ is that for your boyfriend? _ ” - but it didn’t...matter in space. Nothing up there did, really, until you broke the rules. 

But this wasn’t a rule to be broken until Eddie said it was. And Matt either, for that matter, if they - got there again.

Peter secretly hoped that they would. But for now...

“Eddie,” Peter said softly, and reached for him. Eddie nearly jerked away, then settled - glancing up at Peter warily from under a furrowed brow. His face was pink, full lips pressed together as if trying to swallow a secret too large to be held. Peter smoothed his fingers over his bicep, stroking thoughtfully [and flark, was he  _ firm _ \- a quick glance down said _ in more than one way _ ]. 

“Eddie,” Peter said again, and this time, Eddie finally looked up at him, blue eyes blown to near-black. It was - obvious. Eddie  _ wanted  _ Peter; and Peter hadn’t been misreading the signs. His fingers shifted higher - testing the waters of shoulder, then neck - stopping short of touching his face, as Eddie only got more agitated the higher he climbed. 

“I don’t regret that,” Peter murmured, “so just...just let me help you relax, okay…?” Seemingly without thought, Eddie bobbed his head in a nod - till Peter started to slide back. And away. And  _ down,  _ down to his knees on the sticky bar floor, the confines of denim almost  _ painful, _ but - first things first.

Warm palms slipped over Eddie’s thighs; a slither of fingers, stroking softly. Eddie’s hands found the bar behind himself and held  _ tight, _ genuine shock on his face as Peter leaned in to -  _ oh _ fuck. 

His mouth fell open, eyes flickering to the ceiling in a ripple of desire, the kind of which he hadn’t felt in -  _ so long _ \- all of it sweeping through him. It was sudden, and yet it felt like they’d been building to this since - since they met. But he wasn’t - Eddie wasn’t -  _ gay  _ -

There was a cool breeze against heated hardness that had him shuddering; zipper undone, and - Peter, Peter was pressing kisses, firm, edged with teeth, against his thighs. Eddie stuttered out whatever he could think of, just - trying to diffuse the situation. 

“Hey -” Eddie’s voice sounded foreign to him; rougher than ever, deeper than crackling tinder. “P-pretty boy, you don't…” Peter  _ moaned,  _ and Eddie felt his toes curl. “G-gotta do that, you don't - haveta...get down on your--” He risked a glance downward, then back up again, Peter’s lips wet and warm against his thigh, soaking through blue fabric, fingers trailing up the backs of his legs; infuriatingly slow. Eddie held the bar that much tighter.

“G-god you look nice down there - just -” Swallowing, Eddie blinked and tried to think of anything remotely bland. They say think of baseball but - all he could think was just how  _ hard  _ he was, and how close Peter was, and how the hell had they gotten  _ here  _ this fast…? In  _ public? _ Well - the bar was closed, it - it didn’t matter so much, but there could be cameras, or someone might still be here, hiding, camouflaged..

A thrill shot down his spine and arced like lightning across his hips; old scars, between his legs. Breath hitched and sweat prickled. 

“W-we should lock up and leave, huh, stardust? We should just... _ go… _ ” 

“Just...let me  _ help  _ you,” Peter murmured, and the vibration shot up Eddie’s leg into his brain, obliterating all sense, common or otherwise. Peter curled a finger over the slit of his boxers, shifting fabric aside, then whistled softly. “You...need a  _ lot  _ of help, I’d say,” he murmured. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he’d swear Peter sounded - appreciative. Weirdly appreciative…

It’s -  _ okay.  _ Honestly, Eddie, it’s okay, baby - would it  _ kill  _ you to relax?”

“A l-little,” Eddie gasped, squirming faintly.  _ Baby, baby, baby.  _ Round and round it went. 

He could’ve pushed Peter off, easily, especially if he risked calling Venom to the surface, but...he couldn’t bring himself to. Somehow; the idea of rejecting Peter was - more painful than any other option. Blue balling himself aside, Eddie couldn’t comprehend the look of hurt he’d see flash across his face. No - 

No, this was... 

“Y-you don’t--” Peter had him in hand, now, though - literally, Eddie’s cock, red and throbbing, framed by both hands, just -  _ out,  _ in the  _ open, _ with Peter’s lips so close to the tip, he could feel every huff of air, every giddy little giggle as if it was his own, somewhere under his skin. Eddie’s head tossed back and he felt his knees wobble; threatening to buckle. One hand left the bar in a flash, fingers buried in a sea of gold, tightening the grip  _ just  _ enough to feel good. Get a  _ handle  _ on things, just - 

_ It was  _ **_different_ ** _ , _ Eddie tried to rationalize. Peter was different, he wasn’t - from around here. So it was fine, right? It wasn’t...it didn’t count, or something, and fuck, it was getting too hard to  _ think,  _ much less--

“ _ Peter, _ ” Eddie yelped, then cleared his throat - as, with practiced effortlessness, Peter parted his lips in a decisive motion took him in his --  _ perfect, beautiful, pretty _ \- mouth. Eddie silently praised the air, the sensation overwhelming. All-encompassing. Little by little, his hips rocked forward, Peter’s cheeks hollowing around the length of him. Dirty; lecherous, debaucherous - every inch savored as if Peter couldn’t get enough of every part of him, humming throatily as he moved. Up, and down, and gradual - slow, infuriatingly slow, so much so that Eddie couldn’t help but beg for “ _ more”  _ and “ _ faster, please, don’t tease me _ \--”

Peter, palming himself on the floor, couldn’t help but smirk at every sound he got the typically-quiet Eddie to make. The moan of his name that slipped out in particular when he swirled his tongue across Eddie’s tip before dipping back down again - “ _ Peter...! _ ” 

Not his greatest work - usually it went smoother than this, but - he loved the mess. It felt...organic, natural,  _ right,  _ especially with Eddie encouraging him more and more with each movement. And, hey...

Say what you wanted - 

Despite their contradictions, Earth boys were  _ surprisingly  _ easy.

At least, that’s what Peter thought.


	7. You Have Killed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ruh roh spaghettio is it time to discover a secret? we think so

  1. ### You Have Killed Me




“Mmm _ mmatt _ ,” Peter whined, thumping his head against the wall outside of Nelson & Murdock. It’d been at least half an hour [okay, ten minutes] since he knocked, and he was in the process of bouncing from foot to foot to try and dislodge some of his restless energy. Sighing a little, Peter frowned at his reflection in the door - pushing a few fingers under an eye as if trying to make himself look a little less...tired.

It wasn’t that he was...aging, or anything. Not that quickly, anyway, given who and what he was, but - being stuck here on Terra, with community service and a  _ job,  _ well - it was taking a toll on him in a way he didn’t expect. He just looked like he was in dire need of a nap, was all - and he was, as a matter of fact. If he could  _ just... _

Glancing furtively around, Peter puffed out his cheeks and dipped a few fingers into his pocket, catching hold of a thin piece of metal. He wasn’t one of the galaxy’s best thieves for  _ nothing,  _ after all - he put the  _ legend  _ in  _ Legend _ ary Outlaw, after all. And...well, nobody was around, plus it wasn’t breaking anything [permanently], and he  _ knew  _ there was a couch in there, so - 

Dropping into a slight crouch, Peter shimmied the makeshift pick into the lock, tongue set between his teeth. _ Quick as a fox. In and out. _ After a little catnap, of course. What was the harm? He needed the rest before going back to work - 

Before seeing Eddie, and - whatever was to come of their little rendezvous the night before. He didn’t regret any of it for a second, but - Eddie, once they’d both...wrapped up, had all but bailed with the force of a cannonball, propelled off into the night like he wanted never to be seen again. Peter couldn’t quite wrap his head around it - though it stung, if nothing else.

Albeit, after all was said and come - er, done - Peter had relished the way Eddie had gone down on him in turn; in a frenzy, as if Peter’s temptation was too much to withstand. He’d half-expected him to flee without reciprocating, prepared to deal with that, but - he’d been left burying his fingers in hair the color of wet straw, plush lips wound around him, and -  _ focus, Quill. _

A hard dick made for a poor lockpick. 

...Strangely,  _ not  _ the first time he’d told himself that. D’ast, was he  _ really _ that pent up? Well...idle hands...

As Peter was setting about letting himself in, however - apparently, Matt was letting himself in the back way. There was a thump and a soft sound of something sliding shut, followed by - curiously - the sound of unbuckling. Or maybe velcro. Peter squinted, pausing mid-machination, and pressed his ear to the door out of curiosity. Someone breaking & entering, perhaps?

The door flew open unexpectedly. The lockpick went flying; and Peter with it - landing flat on his ass on the floor with a squawk of indignance. Above him, looking slightly flushed and a little disheveled, was Matt Murdock.

“Peter?” Matt’s voice, startled, filtered by above him as Peter rubbed his rear, grimacing a little. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!”

“I...work here, Peter.” Matt couldn’t quite fight back the smile of bemusement, brow furrowing. “Just - got in.” An uneasy lull followed as Matt motioned vaguely with a hand behind himself. “Through - the back.” That felt unnecessary to say, somehow, but Peter couldn’t help a little grin.

“That your uh. Usual method?” There was  _ more  _ than enough innuendo to go around, written on the lines of his scruffy face. Matt’s cheeks pinkened under the implication, and for a moment, he seemed to be working through either a. how to breathe or n. how to speak. Peter felt a little surge of smugness at that. How could he not?

Lawyers were supposedly so good with their words, after all. 

But Peter had found so far that there was more than one use for a clever tongue.

“Do you want to come inside?” Matt stepped back, then seemed to pause, adjusting the tie around his neck. Its knot had slipped loose - not fully done-up. Peter eyed it as he sashayed over the threshold [purposefully knocking chests with Matt in the process, though there was plenty of room to scoot by otherwise]. Matt, sighing a little, shut the door behind him, shaking his head.

“Were you - trying to break and enter before I got in?” Matt asked, and Peter froze mid-pivot, looking around the office as if seeing it for the first time all over again - there was lukewarm coffee still sizzling on the burner, a scarf and gloves abandoned on the hatrack by the door, and a window blowing a balmy breeze in from the city. 

After perhaps a beat too long, a hand flew up to Peter’s heart as if he was appalled by the mere suggestion.

“What?  _ Breaking-- _ are you kidding? I would - I mean, it’s not much of a lock,” Peter pointed out, brows lifting. “You have like - next to no security here. It’s kind of a dump.”  _ Why  _ had he rambled into the rudest territory possible? Just short of telling Matt he, too, looked terrible - thankfully, Peter refrained from further inserting his foot in his mouth - at least for the moment. 

“Well - thanks,” Matt laughed, a mere huff of annoyed amusement - no doubt irritated at himself for laughing. Peter could totally tell. “But your retrial is all set, so there’s no need to drop by. I’ve got everything well in hand.”

“I’m  _ sure  _ you do,” Peter drawled. Okay - now that the awkward hiccup of Matt’s unexpected arrival was out of the way, he could fall into this kind of rhythm. It was a stride he knew well, a moonwalk around flirtation. Plus, Matt’s face hadn’t lost its flush yet. He was on the in. Easy-peasy.

“...Peter, look, we - talked about what happened, right?” Peter nodded, his face set in a purposefully measured expression of understanding - even though he knew Matt couldn’t tell, he still wanted to appear like he was earnestly listening. “And you know it’s - not gonna happen again, yeah?” Peter squinted a little, pursing his lips in thought, head cocked to the side. 

“ _ Isn’t it though? _ ” he inquired sweetly, a smile creeping across his face as he swept back a step or two. Moonwalking. Literally, this time. His movements were all in the hips, the shoulders, shimmying as he pointed two fingers Matt’s way. “I think I remember telling  _ you  _ not to overthink things, Matty. Besides--” he sprawled back in Matt’s chair with a squeak of the wheels, skidding a little. It wasn’t the most supportive thing. Peter flailed a hand to catch himself and glanced up to find Matt with his head inclined, hands on his hips. Thinking; maybe.

Again.

“See, there you go, you’re putting way,  _ way  _ too much thought into it,” Peter said brightly - though something uneasy tugged at his core; like the gut feeling he had missed something important. “It’s just fun, right?” Something twitched at the corner of Matt’s mouth, and Peter studied it - unsure what it meant. Just as he wasn’t entirely sure yet why it was Matt fidgeted so much with his tie. Because there he went again - a couple of fingers undoing the work he’d done to make it more presentable.

“Maybe,” Matt said, and the word was more damning than an outright rejection. Peter could feel the knot in his stomach only grow; anxious and restless. He  _ knew  _ Matt wanted him - Peter could almost always tell, he wasn’t completely oblivious, despite what people thought. 

They got the wrong impression of him, at times, he felt. Namely where his observations were concerned.

Rocking up out of the chair, Peter padded back over to Matt again - crowding his space with a swoop of his long, lean frame, tilting in till their knees nearly knocked. Matt, perhaps out of stubbornness or something else, refused to move - instead tilting his head up Peter’s way, a brow raised above rose-colored glasses.  _ Funny,  _ Peter thought idly, studying the places the lenses cast kisses of red across Matt’s freckled face,  _ you think with glasses like that he’d have a better perspective.  _

It was a naive, childlike thought, but - he couldn’t help it, sometimes. It was what it was, and he was who he was. 

Sometimes he just wanted things to be simple.

“Matt, I just -” Peter’s hands lifted, then hesitated - seeing the way he tensed, just a little. “I want you to know it’s...different, okay? It’s - hard to explain.” It just - felt like the right kind of key. Or the pick, getting in somewhere he wasn’t supposed to, but still. The way they popped, the way Matt had opened up for him so unexpectedly...he hadn’t been trying to get in through any particular door. He just wanted - 

Peter just wanted to connect.

It was simple as it was a lonely, sad kind of realization. That after...everything was said and done, and he’d left the most  _ important  _ person in the world behind, he - well, d’ast, he just...hadn’t been right. 

Peter was the boy who was abandoned, time and time again, the one left to exist alone, and - it skewed things. Subconsciously, he grasped that the way he sought his comfort wasn’t exactly optimal all the time, but...he couldn’t help it. And when he felt that unlocking; that  _ spark -  _ he wanted to chase it till he saw what lurked beyond the door, where the shooting star landed in the nighttime sky.

So, closing his eyes, at a loss for words, he made a wish, and fell from on high to kiss Matt again, just as he’d been dying to for  _ days. _ He felt the sharp inhalation, Matt’s hands rising - half-expecting to be pushed away, but - 

Matt hauled him  _ in,  _ and he pressed against the kiss with a ferocity, lips parting, unrivaled. The flare of his tongue was a flame that obliterated Peter’s knees; muscles going weak and slack as if Matt’s passion was a sauna. 

He felt one of those hands leave his chest to instead snag him under the chin - as Matt broke to breathe in the form of a ragged, hungry little laugh, his teeth catching Peter’s bottom lip. They tingled where they met his scar, and Peter moaned slightly - that, too, he couldn’t help. He just  _ clung,  _ pawing at Matt’s neck, his jaw, his chest - trying to wrangle his clothes out of the way so he could feel the warmth. The skin.

Their connection therein.

And suddenly, Peter knew, he just  _ knew  _ \-- Matt felt it, too.

Matt was pressed flush against him, leaving little room for movement or adjustment, instead entangled in a way that belied all the things he’d apparently been avoiding. His hands clawed up the back of Peter’s henley, reaching for skin likewise - trailing the bumps of his spine, looking for access to something secret. Something forbidden, maybe. The marks he’d left on him not that long ago were finally fading, but Peter had no doubt he’d make new ones, but - 

In the meantime, he set about making new ones on  _ Matt.  _ A little something to remember him by. Maybe that was why, Peter realized, he’d been so fidgety with the tie. Underneath it, the yellowing marks of his own fading passions were starting to drift away. Peter, smiling devilishly, dipped in to suck a soft,  _ slow  _ line of pleasure across Matt’s neck anew. Maybe a little higher up...and  _ up,  _ and up - to the place behind his ear that had Matt scrambling around to grab at his ass with a startled,  _ lewd  _ little sound.  _ Jackpot. _

Peter leaned back in to kiss him again, and -

“Murdock?” There was a knock at the main office door. 

Matt shot off Peter’s mouth in an instant, lips damp and shining. “Shit.”

“It’s fine, you’re not in,” Peter said automatically, trying to steer Matt’s face back toward him - but he’d lost the momentum. The rhythm had been thrown. Matt was shoving at him frantically, trying to maneuver him away, hissing:

“Go - sit somewhere. Go - hide.”

“Hide?” Peter asked, bewildered, as Matt broke away. One hand dipped down to adjust himself, just a little - he couldn’t help it, it was - a lot, and then to be denied was even  _ more,  _ and - “where am I supposed to hide? Why am I hiding? Who is that?”

“Just - go,” Matt waved at him frantically - then, clawing at his neck, quickly snagged a crinkled scarf off the coathook by the door. How he even knew it was there was beyond Peter, quite frankly, but - 

“Matt?” The voice came again, annoyed - and something that sounded like the door rising off its hinges shortly followed. Peter, eyes wide, asked no further questions - merely ducking behind Matt’s desk in the office, scrunching up in a little ball, tucking his feet against the inside. 

There, acrobatically poised by means of years of thieving, he trembled, waiting and listening. The strain to all but levitate off the floor notwithstanding, the adrenaline of it all had him giddy as a kid again. 

Who was the owner of the voice? An ex, maybe? An enemy? He wasn’t entirely sure, but - he listened, cocking his head, and caught - 

“Jess. Hey.”  _ Jess.  _ Maybe that’d been the name across the way.  _ Jessica Jones.  _ Right. Detective, or some noir thing like that. Kinda cool. So the neighbor dropped by. Big deal.

“Why are you wearing my scarf?”

“It’s - cold.” Peter cringed. How in the world was a  _ lawyer  _ such a bad  _ liar? _ There was a whole - Jim Carrey movie about it, wasn’t there? He’d only just seen it, of course, but - 

“You’re a fucking liar,” Jess said, and Peter found himself nodding along in agreement. “A horrible one at that. It’s the middle of Summer.”

“I don’t control my body temperature,” Matt replied flatly.

“Bull _ shit, _ ” Jessica emphasized, “and it’s still my scarf.”

“No it’s not. I have an identical one.”

“Are you seriously doubling down on this? You can’t fucking  _ see _ .”

“I have..... a fever. y’know what, you should go, actually. don’t want you catching this.” 

Peter, stifling his laughter, glanced down at the floor - or, rather, adjacent to it. 

Something caught his eye - an open door, an ajar lock, something like that usually did. And this was a drawer to the desk that was just a fraction more open than the others. Head tilting to the side, Peter smoothly shimmied back down to the floor off the corners of the desk’s underside.  _ Die Hard, eat your heart out… _

And, with a crook of a pinkie, Peter opened another door he probably shouldn’t have.

Because inside the desk was a dark, sleek suit. Not the kind you wore to court. Not the kind anyone typical would wear. But it was, instead, a kind of...armor-y blend. Stretchy, but sustainable fabric. And, in turning it over, Peter slowly realized the top of the suit had gleaming eyes.  _ Roses. Fire. Blood.  _ His head spun, mouth sagging open a little as he unfurled more and more of it from its confines - like Peter pan unfolding his own shadow…

“What the…”

On top of the suit, there were a pair of little black horns. 

And on its front - 

**_DD_ ** , emblazoned red.


End file.
